


Diamond Jubilee

by KellerProcess



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Crimean War, F/F, History porn, Multi, The Long Game, Victorian era, late nineteenth century, lovely victorian words for genitals, victorian lesbianism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:59:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellerProcess/pseuds/KellerProcess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A late Victorian love affair! As the nineteenth century winds down and Queen Victoria's diamond jubilee (sixtieth anniversary as monarch) approaches, England's empire is at its peak, and she can no longer deny the interest she has harbored for Russia, one of her main rivals throughout the 1800s. Meanwhile, an adolescent America faces growing pains and fears of her own with help from France. Not really a plot-heavy fic, but more of a meditation on American and British history with a lot of hot F/F!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diamond Jubilee

The morning post was the same as it had been for weeks: missives from humans across the empire and beyond expressing their warmest wishes for England in the month of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. Today brought letters and postcards from India, Australia, and Canada’s territories, and from all of America’s forty-five states. Her former colony had also sent a card—one with such poor penmanship that England considered burning it on the spot, if only to keep up the illusion that the brash little strumpet had actually learned something under her tutelage. Ultimately, she propped it over the fireplace with the rest of the Nations’ greetings, doing her best to bite back a fond smile. Though, of course, the little upstart would no doubt embarrass them both by showing up in some outlandish outfit—like cowboy jeans and one of her ridiculous hats. What had it been called? A Houston?

But it was only 0800, and England ever held fast to her rule of entertaining no thoughts that would make her even crankier at breakfast than was her usual mood. Putting the post aside, she dosed her tea generously with milk and stirred in two lumps of sugar. “Blast,” she murmured. As usual, Millicent had forgotten the damned scones. Really, the girl was such a bother; why she seemed constitutionally incapable of realizing that hot scones were one of the pillars upon which civilization rested was quite beyond England’s comprehension. Sighing, the Nation reached up and tugged the bell pull to summon her human cook from the kitchens.

It was then she noticed she had missed one letter in her pile, one in an ecru envelope upon which her human name had been written in a tight, overly neat script that suggested a hand unfamiliar with Latin letters. The postage stamp was the Romanov crest surrounded by Cyrillic letters England could not decipher.

“Russia,” she whispered. Her hand trembled only slightly as she reached again for the letter opener.

The same elegant handwriting flowed across the stationary inside, which, like the Eastern empire herself, smelled vaguely of snow and sunflowers. The missive itself was all business—pithy, but not pointed. Russia and her tsar congratulated England and Victoria on the eve of the empress’ sixty-year reign, and she would be pleased to attend the procession and the rest of the festivities. She would be arriving in London by train on the fifteenth.

England nearly choked upon her tea. Coughing indecorously, she reread the final paragraph. Indeed, her sleep-addled brain had not played a trick upon her.

“My God,” she murmured when she had caught her breath.

“M’lady?” Millicent stood in the doorway to the drawing room, her expression its usual mix of eager and put-upon; England had really no idea how she did it.

“What day is it, Millicent?”

“Thursday, m’lady.”

“The date, dammit all!”

“Oh.” The girl curtsied apologetically. “The tenth, m’lady.”

“Five days,” England murmured, rubbing her forehead. The adrenaline surging through her veins was not improving her mood.

“Sorry?”

“Never mind,” England said, waving her lady’s maid away. “Have Rebecca bring me a plate of hot scones, would you? And none of this stale, day-old rubbish you girls pass off when you forget to make them—and don’t think I don’t notice! I want them to be fresh and piping hot.”

“Yes, m'lady. Will there be anything else?”

“If you see Mary on your way down, tell her to fetch me my stationary, pen, and an inkpot. I’ve a letter to write.”

***

England could not say why she always wrote to France during a time of crisis, except that it was a thoroughly undignified habit, like the cigarettes she had picked up during her brief association with Oscar Wilde and his circle. It was almost comfortable, like a hearth in January. Typically, she chalked it up to geographical proximity, and the kind of sympathy that only centuries of animosity could truly cultivate.

As ever, France responded not by post, but by hopping the next ship across the Channel, and then taking the next train and the next hansom to England’s house in Chelsea. There, it had taken some of her neighbor’s finest wine and cheeses to loosen England’s tongue.

“Why would she want to attend after we trounced her at Sevastopol?”

“Angleterre, none of us truly “trounced” the other during that war; all of us went home with broken bones. Poor Turkey is still complaining of phantom pain. But even so, that was over and done with forty years ago. Do you expect her to hold a grudge after this long?”

“Why not? We’ve hated one another since the Middle Ages.”

“A good point.” France lit her cigarette against England’s and puffed a cloud of smoke as she considered. “Of course, she could have other reasons for visiting you than to disrupt your queen’s celebration.”

“And what could those possibly be?”

France merely smirked at her before blowing a heart-shaped smoke ring.

Feeling heated, England waved it away. “Oh, come off it!”

“Well, perhaps you are right. What use would she have with a flat-chested midget?”

“What.”

France smirked. “Short of temper, stature, and curves. Your Shakespeare based his Hermia upon you, did he not?”

In one fluid motion, England leaned across the table, seized France by the neck, and began throttling her. “How dare you? Russia isn’t a bloody barbarian! She’s an honorable Nation! A worthy opponent on the field!”

“And—“ France choked. “And you’d love to play with her titties!”

“Yes!” England saw the snare a second too late. “No!”

“Aha!”

“It’s not like that!” England released her hold on the other and settled back into her chair. “She’s just—”

“Angleterre, Angleterre,” France chuckled, rubbing the red marks England had left on her neck. “I know you far too well, my friend. You were both so distracted by each other, you could barely command your soldiers to march in a circle.”

“She was distracted?”

“The only thing more painful than watching that clumsy duel of yours was knowing that neither of you would let it end in a good fuck in the mud.”

“Must you be so vulgar?”

“You enjoy every word. Anyway, calm yourself. The most you have to fear from her little visit is a more awkward silence. At best—” She blew a perfect smoke ring and poked her finger through it, as if repeatedly pushing a button. “Though, really, I can’t imagine what she sees in such an ill-tempered little girl.”

England soothed her ruffled ego by upending her wineglass in France’s hair.

***

The platform at Victoria Station was noisy and crowded, as usual. It was also raining, as it seemed to more often than not in England’s borders. Steam, coal smoke, and damp mixed with the smell England always associated with rail travel—one fourth human body odor, one fourth twill, and one half anticipation. She lifted herself onto her toes and peered through the crowd of embracing couples, fidgeting children, lords, and barristers grumbling beneath upheld newspapers.

“Where the devil is she? This is the two o’clock train.”

“Maybe she changed her mind,” France sniped from beneath her own umbrella, the only pink one in the sea of black and gray. Apparently, she was still a little sore over being doused in chardonnay.

“A proper Nation does not throw over another Nation,” England said, feeling sore herself. She turned to give France a further piece of her mind, only to bump into her neighbor’s bosom—which her bodice barely covered. “And must you always insist upon looking like a tart at state occasions?”

France shrugged. “I cannot help it. My people have embraced Decadence, now that yours have exiled it.”

“Bloody indecent degenerates, the lot of them,” England muttered.

“So short and so bourgeois.”

“Well, couldn’t you wear a shawl, at least? Decadence is one thing, but I can distinctly see your—erm, Nantes and Reims.”

“Can you?”

“Confound it all, France! You’ve half the platform staring at you!”

“Mhh,” France purred, making eyes at a group of passing men. When they looked, she winked and shook her breasts at them. England buried her face in her hands.

“I suppose I truly can’t take you anywhere, can I?”

“Ahh, ladies!”

The woman’s voice was high and youthful, yet anything but childish. Both Nations turned back to the rail car where a tall figure was descending, unassisted by the porter. Rather than a traveling dress of dark tweed, she wore the uniform of the imperial life guard—coat and trousers the blue of the deepest ocean, set off by golden epaulets, bright brass buttons, and a number of cruciform medals, the meanings of which England could not fathom. Her long silver-blond hair fell unbound to her waist. As she alighted, she reached into her scabbard as if to draw a sword. Instead, her gloved hand removed and snapped open an umbrella.

England gulped, feeling hot despite the chill.

At her side, France was practically dancing with excitement, which made her look very much as if she needed to avail herself of a water closet. “Mon amie!”

“France, mon chere!” The two clasped hands and began yammering away in French like a pair of giddy schoolgirls. England rolled her eyes and feigned less than enthusiastic interest in the steam puffing from the locomotive’s smokestack. Despite centuries of communication, her own command of the French language was middling at best—indeed, she typically prided herself on being unable to speak “Frog.” But today she felt young and vaguely defeated, as if she had just failed her O levels.

 _At least I know my Greek and Latin_ , she mused. Let either of them try to best her in those, with ten thousand schoolboys declining _bellum_ and _amnis_ even as they spoke.

“It is so good to see you!” Russia said at last, withdrawing from an embrace that England found far too overlong and showy. Her accent was heavy, but her English praiseworthy. “Oh dear! But I haven’t greeted you yet, sweet England! I’m sorry. I almost didn’t recognize you without your red coat.”

“Quite all right. It happens all the time,” England said dryly. But apparently, sarcasm was lost on the other empire. Though it seemed gentility was not. Before England could so much as blink, Russia had taken her hand in hers.

“Forgive me.” Her lips grazed her knuckles aristocratically.

England very much wanted to say something cutting, or at least mildly unpleasant. But the only thing she could think of was, “Erm…ah…” Which she said while being patently aware that doing so made her sound a complete fool.

“I believe that is Angleterre’s way of saying, ‘What a smashing uniform! Did you travel all the way from St. Petersburg wearing that?'”

Russia fingered the tassel on her jacket in a way that would have been illegal, had England been Prime Minister. “This? Oh, no. I just changed in my cabin. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other, I thought England wouldn’t recognize me in a dress!”

England’s cheeks reddened. So she was still thinking about Crimea! Well, wasn’t that just spiffing?

“Believe me, mon amie, neither of us could ever mistake you. There are not many six-foot-three women in Europe—or even many six-foot Nations! Even Hungary is a little on the short side.”

Two porters emerged from the cabin balancing a heavy trunk between them that bore the crest of the Romanov house. England did her best not to stare. Good Lord! Granted, her queen’s jubilee was an important occasion, but Russia hadn’t needed to pack half of Siberia as a gift—even if it was just sitting there being chilly and unpleasant.

“Your trunk Miss Braginskaya,” one said, looking very much at a loss for what to think about the Nation in question.

“Thank you!” Russia flashed him her perpetual smile. “I hope it is no trouble for you to load it into a cab?”

“No bother at all. I’ll fetch one.” England pushed her way through the crowd before either Nation could object. The situation was getting damnably awkward, and she wanted nothing more than to go sulk for a while. And finding a cab at Victoria Station in this downpour would give her quite enough time to have a good pout, and plenty of nasty thoughts about France—who, after all, would not be France if she wasn’t pushing her nose and her ridiculous knockers in everyone’s business. After losing three hansoms to far more eager Londoners, she decided she’d had quite enough of pouting and quite too much of getting drenched. “Cab!”

“Excuse me, madam! I do believe I was next in the queue.”

“I’m your bloody country,” she told the affronted gentleman as the driver hopped down to open the door. “Take the one after.”  
One look at her snarling face was apparently enough to dissuade the man from further argument. “Oh. Right you are, Lady Kirkland. My apologies.”

“You can apologize by waiting here until I’ve helped a few of my fellows with their baggage.” England stepped closer. “And don’t even think of swiping it. I’m in a right foul mood, sir. You would do well not to make it worse.”

“Lady Kirkland.” He removed his hat and bowed as England turned and pushed her way back to the platform. Her glare was enough to ensure that the crowd kept their distance as the porters and the driver loaded the bulging trunk. Or, she thought ruefully, perhaps they were all just transfixed by Russia, smiling and waving in her impeccable uniform, and the giggling doxy on her arm.

“You two go on to Chelsea and drop off Russia’s things,” France said as Russia stepped into the carriage again without assistance. “I’ve got someone—er, something to do this afternoon, so I won’t be able to accompany you home for tea. But why don’t we dine at the Savoy tonight? Say nine o’clock?”

 _Why don’t you bugger off back to Paris?_ England thought. Instead she said, “How about you bugger off to Whitchapel instead? In a frock like that, you’ll make a killing.”

“Provided I am not killed first, yes? Ohohoho Angleterre!” France clutched at her heart. “How you wound me! No, my jealous little rabbit-ears. I won’t bugger off just yet, either to your charming slums or back to gay Paris. Our last unfortunate conflict aside, Russia is a dear friend, and has been ever since my revolution—though we did, of course, flirt a little during Napoleon’s campaign.”

England crossed her arms.

“So cute when you are angry! I would pat that ridiculous bun of yours if I knew you wouldn’t bite my hand off. Anyway, we found out long ago that we make far better friends than lovers.” She shrugged helplessly. “What can I say? She has very strange tastes when it comes to Nations—small and stroppy. So you have my blessing to woo her.”

“France, I wouldn’t ask for your blessing to wipe my arse.”

France simply smiled and patted England’s hand. “Don’t worry. You’ll do just fine.” And with a little bow that left nothing of her bosom to the imagination, France walked off down the street twirling her umbrella gaily.

England shook her head. She was ever amazed at France’s talent to be simultaneously aggravating and reassuring. How did the Nation do it, exactly?

“England?” Russia stuck her head out of the carriage. “Is something the matter? Where is France going?”

“She, erm, had to attend to some affairs.” England said as she stepped into the hansom cab and gave the driver her address. “But don’t mind that. She’ll join us for supper. In the meantime, we’ll go home and I’ll help you settle in.” She glanced down at her pocket watch. “Ah, and we’ll be just in time for tea. I’ll have Millicent prepare some savories—though she’s rather a loss when it comes to scones, I fear.”

Russia closed her eyes and smiled. “That sounds lovely! Whenever I visit another Nation, I always worry about the quality of her tea.”

England blinked. “You do?”

Russia giggled. “When I visited America’s house, she offered me something called coffee. What a terrible experience!”

England nodded. “Well said. America has always had peculiar tastes when it comes to food. All I can say for certain is that she took up the habit during her rebellion as a slight to me and then wasn’t able to put it by.” England said nothing of her own nasty habits; if Russia was offended by a woman having a smoke, she could bloody well get a room at the Savoy or go back to her tsar.

“Mhh.” The taller Nation grinned at her as the rain slashed down outside.

“Nh.” England looked out the window in silence, troubled by the dreadful feeling that she was supposed to say something debonair or at least conversational. “Damned awful weather we’re having.”

“Oh, it’s much colder in St. Petersburg.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” England sighed and looked down at her hands. This was getting them nowhere. “Russia, if I may ask—why did you come?”

Those lovely violet eyes opened, and Russia looked at her in confusion. “To pay respect to England’s queen. Sixty years is a long time to rule, no? Much longer than many of my tsars.”

“Well, yes, but…” England sighed. _No use beating about the bush, old girl._ “Well, about that business with that tsar of yours. Nicholas I. And our row in Turkey—”

“Oh, England means Vostochnaya Voina! The Eastern War.”

“Erm. Yes, I suppose so. If that’s what your people call the Crimean War.”

“Eastern War. Crimean War. I think the expression your people us is ‘water under the bridge'?” When England only stared at her, the other Nation’s expression turned serious. “We are empires, England. Much greater than mere Nations. Surely grudges are above us.”

“Is that your tsar’s opinion?”

“He does not tell me all of his secrets. But it is my own opinion.” And like the sun through one of England’s scattered showers, her grin returned. “Besides, England looked so cute in her red coat, I couldn’t hate her forever!”

England knew for certain that her blush had traveled all the way down to her kneecaps. “Oh. Well. Then. That’s very good. Erm. A-anyway, Russia. You want to see the jubilee, but you’ve come rather a bit early, I’m afraid. But not to worry! There are plenty of festivities we can attend until the twentieth, and plenty of things I can show you. Trafalgar Square, Cleopatra’s Needle, which we filched from Egypt I’m afraid. Whitchapel if you’ve a taste for the macabre.” Lord knew, no rapist or murderer in his right mind would trifle with a woman of Russia’s impressive size. “Or, Madame Tussaud’s! They’re revealing a figure of me in honor of the jubilee, you know. It’s quite lifelike, I’m told. Baker Street—though 221B doesn’t exist except in the minds of Sir Doyle’s more fanciful readers. Perhaps we could even visit the palace, though I don’t know if Her Majesty is up to seeing any more foreign dignitaries at the moment.”

“It all sounds quite lovely,” Russia said as she trailed her fingertips down the glass, following the course of a water drop. “But I would really prefer just to have tea at England’s house—even if England’s cook does not make very good scones.”

Her toes were now in desperate danger of being taken by the blush. “Well,” England said dumbly, “yes. We can certainly arrange that.”

***

As England’s footmen hauled the trunk upstairs, Russia followed, instead of repairing to the drawing room for tea. When England inquired after her, she complained of her damp uniform and said that she must dress properly for the occasion.

“I could send my lady’s maid to help you, or one of the other girls.”

“I have such maids in St. Petersburg, even though I am His Excellency’s imperial guard. They are so tiresome! I never know what to do with them.” Russia waved her hand in irritation. “Still, I cannot manage a corset alone. If you would help me?”

England had the distinct feeling that she was walking into an ambush. “Well, I’m a bit out of practice, but I suppose I can lace you up well enough.”

Her footmen had placed the trunk at the foot of Russia’s bed. As England bent to open it, Russia’s hands slid onto her own.  
“No, dear England. Please allow me. There is a catch to it.” She demonstrated by jerking her hand away just as the leftmost clasp snapped open with enough force to bruise a finger.

“Oh.”

Inside were several dresses, each more beautiful than the next—quite enough for the requisite three changes each day with several left over. Russia lifted out a heavy gown the color of early evening and held it against her body. “Is this appropriate for tea?”

“Quite appropriate.” England rubbed the back of her neck.

Russia laid the garment out upon the bed and fished through her trunk for some underthings. She emerged a moment later with hose, petticoats, demi pants, and a corset.

 _Women don’t do such things._ That’s what her queen had said when asked about the topic of gross indecency. England, of course, knew better, as did many females throughout in all Her Majesty’s domains. But on this matter alone, England never saw fit to correct or question her leader. Little good it had done her, however; though Victoria had made her into a true empire, England had slept largely alone—save, of course, for some of her dearest allies and the occasional opera singer or actress. Not that she would ever admit it to France, but dear Lord, did the Divine Sarah Bernhardt know how to use those pretty fingers! Even so, she had never contemplated a liaison with the cold empire to the east until catching sight of her on the field at Sevastopol. Damn it. France was an oversexed dollymop, but she was typically right about affairs of the heart. The war had been enough of a tactical nightmare for England and her allies—being distracted by Russia’s firm breasts, her slender hips, her long hair and violet eyes had made things so much worse; Although England didn’t quite blame herself for the Light Brigade’s fate, she did feel guilty for not being more attentive when orders were being written up.

“Ahh.”

England looked up just in time to see Russia slide out of her shirt. She wore only a simple bustier beneath, which raised her already ample breasts. England could not help but stare as her guest turned to face her.

“Will England unlace me? This was made for my uniforms; its shape does not fit that of a dress.” She swept her hair up; an invitation.

“Oh. Of course.” Gingerly, England stepped behind her and began undoing the laces. As she opened the garment, her fingers occasionally brushed against the pale skin beneath. England was surprised to find it both soft and warm. She had ever imagined Russia to be as cold as her steppes. Frowning, she looked down at her own chest. Ultimately, she was a small country, so a virtually flat chest had been understandable for the first however many centuries, but she was a bloody empire now. Really, wasn’t that worth at least an inch?

“England? Is everything all right?”

Apparently, Russia had been talking. “Yes, quite, sorry. Just trying to remember how this works. I beg your pardon?”

“I had asked if you would also dress for tea.”

“Well, yes, that is customary.” Finally, she finished with the damned laces just as her hands began trembling from the feel and smell of that warm skin beneath. Snow and sunflowers. Had some Russian managed to distill them into perfume, or did the intoxicating scent come from Russia herself?

Russia’s hands slid onto her own, and together they guided the open bustier down her hips and thighs. The taller Nation’s hair swished across her bare back as she paced to her trunk and reached in. England failed to avert her gaze from the sight of those great breasts swelling forth, then rolling back like a tide as Russia searched through the dresses, then stood, holding a high-collared gown in a deep emerald. “I had wanted to wait until the jubilee for this, but England has been so kind in hosting me as her guest, and I do not like to sit on secrets.”

England didn’t understand what the other Nation was talking about, until she smiled and held the dress out at arm’s length. “Oh. It’s… for me?”

Russia laughed, a deep-bellied thing that bore little resemblance to her high, almost child-like voice. “It may not be polite to quote an enemy when one is a guest, but France is right: You can be somewhat obtuse, Gospazitza Kirkland.”

“And France can be somewhat impolitic when it comes to telling tales out of school.”

“I am afraid I do not understand that expression. Even so, I would like you to wear this tonight. It was made by my tsarina’s own dressmaker.”

England cursed her obsession with all things royal even as she said, “Thank you. It will be my honor.”

Russia’s unbound breasts bounced as she walked around behind the smaller Nation. “May I assist you?”

“I—ah. I suppose so.”

Russia’s long fingers made short work of her dress. As England felt them shift to the laces of her corset, she gasped. “Russia! There must be some mistake. I—it is not customary to change one’s undergarments when changing for tea, unless the dress in question requires a different shape.”

Russia made a thoughtful noise, but her fingers did not cease.

“Russia…”

The other Nation chuckled, and England felt two very soft things press against her back. “France also told me to be patient with you. But I admit, I do not understand this British art of indirection very well, either.”

“She told you what?” England’s fists clenched. “That swine.”

“Yes. She had a feeling you would say that, too—and that you would not believe my preferences unless I gave you a demonstration.”

The moment Russia reached around and caressed one of her still-covered breasts, England experienced two thoughts simultaneously: desire that pooled in her stomach like hot lead, and vague irritation at the wet spot in her knickers.

And then Russia was taking down her lacy petticoats with such abominable slowness that England could no longer remain silent. “Oh for God’s sake, let me do it, then,” she muttered as she finished the job. In response, Russia hummed lightly and returned to England’s laces. Soon enough, the smaller Nation was bare to the waist and shivering as Russia leaned down to toy with the lace around her garters.

“Ah, but this is not nearly as fun as it could be,” Russia purred. She straightened up and stepped in front of England, whose instinctive attempt to shield her bosom with her arms Russia thwarted immediately. "Remarkable,” she whispered. “Oxford and Cambridge, yes?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Mhh. Just like England to combine intellect and beauty so perfectly.” England moaned as Russia trailed a finger over Cambridge’s nipple.

Women don’t do such things, her queen had said. But bother the old hag. And for that matter, bother France as well. And bother her own insecurities on top of it. Russia’s touch felt like a fire on a chill day, and her breasts were so full and firm and, God, it had been forty years and England still frigged herself mercilessly at the thought of them.

“The Ural Mountains?” England guessed as she did the same to that expansive left breast.

The other empire nodded. “Would England like to see Lake Baikal?”

“I’ve always been rather a loss at geography. Where is that again?” England grinned. Now that the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, she felt much more rakish—even a bit like she had during her Pirate Queen days. “No, no, don’t tell me.” She held up a hand before Russia could speak. “Is it here?” She trailed her tongue down Russia’s sternum.

“Mhh.”

“No? How about here?” Kneeling, she dipped it into the Nation’s navel.

“You are—ahh—v-very close, England.”

“Indeed.” A few less than graceful attempts at the buckle and then the closures on Russia’s trousers and her guest’s underwear greeted her—men’s skivvies, no less. For reasons that she suspected had much to do with her love for a well-cut suit, the sight only excited England further. She jerked them both down at once, revealing Russia’s mound.

“Mh. Yes. Very like a lake, isn’t it?” England trailed two fingers through the straight dun hair that reminded her of steppe grass.

Russia hissed out a breath. “This is not fair, England.”

“No, I suppose not. After all, you’ve yet to see Lake Windermere.”

“I would like to do so in a better spot, if you do not mind.”

“This is a rather awkward position,” England agreed. She straightened up and guided Russia’s long hands onto her garters. “Ridiculous, aren’t they? Damned things turn foreplay into a ruddy battle.”

“Is this what we are doing?” Russia asked as she led England to the bed.

“Foreplay or a battle?”

“It was my understanding that you called this fucking.”

“Well, then.” England stretched herself out on the duvet, spreading her legs invitingly. After removing her boots and the last vestiges of her uniform, Russia lay down beside her. Instead of removing the garters, however, she simply slid her fingers past the lacy waist of England’s knickers and onto her quim.

“Aaahn,” England arched “B-by Jove, I think you’ve found Belle Isle.”

“Yet you have not located Island Olkhon yet.”

“Tt. How unbearably rude of me.” England slid her hand between Russia’s slender thighs and sought to do just that. When her fingers located the small nub between Russia’s folds, she moaned and pressed her lips against the larger Nation’s.  
“Mhh,” Russia replied as she pushed her tongue past England’s lips. The two kissed deeply as their explorations continued—one hand teasing through their folds as the other caressed bare flesh and raw silk.

“Y-your legs,” Russia panted, coming up for air. “Please. Twine them through mine, England. I want to feel the heat beneath your stockings.”

“Right you are.” England did as asked and shuddered as Russia drew her into an embrace, large breasts mashing up against her smaller pair.

“Very good.” Russia gave one a rough little squeeze before returning her fingers to England’s clit. As she always did when touched so expertly, England bore down upon the digit as she begged for more, and harder. Thankfully, she had the presence of mind to bury her face against Russia’s shoulder and scream out her release as it washed over her. There would have been no end to the scandal if the entire household had come running only to discover their country having her cunt fingered by her guest—who finished shortly after as England eased a finger into her warmth while scraping her teeth against that pale flesh.

The two lay there, wrapped around each other and kissing through their climaxes until they sank into a deep and firm embrace.

“My God,” England murmured when she found her breath again.

“Da,” Russia replied, before, apparently, remembering that England did not speak her language. “So wonderful. Just as France promised.”

“Hum. That woman has no bloody idea.”

“If you say so.”

England made a noncommittal noise as she shifted her leg over Russia’s hip—and felt the cloth cling to her lips. “Well, it looks as though I will need a fresh pair of knickers if I’m ever to make it downstairs for tea in that smashing dress you’ve brought me. However did you know green was my favorite color?” She frowned. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me—”

“A lucky guess,” Russia reassured her. “I chose it because I thought it would match England’s eyes. Which just happen to be my favorite color.”

“Well, isn’t that a fine how do you do?” England nuzzled her lover’s neck, taking in her scent. “And I suppose we shall have to bathe before we can be presentable to the staff. Which will, I suppose, lead to at least one more round, I suspect, as water does tend to excite me.”

“Of course. I had hoped as much.”

“Mh. Cheeky woman.” England kissed her fondly. Both Nations forwent speaking for a few moments in favor of stroking each other’s hair—or taking England’s the rest of the way down, in Russia’s case. And silence always made the island Nation think.

“Russia?”

“Yes?”

“D’you suppose this’ll all last? I mean, my queen’s not going to have another jubilee. Perhaps not even that many more birthdays. And with this new century approaching—heh. Fin de siecle, France calls it. One of my writers—well, ex-writer, now—had one of his characters call it fin du globe. I sometimes worry the bugger had it right.”

Russia hummed thoughtfully. “I have heard it said that the sun never sets upon the British Empire—”

“Because the Good Lord doesn’t trust us in the dark. Erm. Sorry, bit of a joke. Do go on.”

“Neither do I think it will set upon the Russian Empire—in the sense of the word that indicates permanence, of course. Though in Siberia, during some times of the year, it does not set for days.”

“I can’t imagine.” England kissed her cheek. “We really should be up and about, you know. My maids are notoriously nosy. Give them half an hour without knowing my whereabouts and they’re peeping into every keyhole and ringing up Scotland Yard. And I really would like your opinion on my tea, since you are something of an expert.”

“As you like.” Russia kissed her lover’s cheek and sat up, stretching lazily. “But I do insist that we do this again before I leave.”

“Oh as many times as possible!” England agreed. “In fact, to hell with Cleopatra’s Needle and the museums! I’m making this a permanent stop on your holiday. After all,” she moved her underwear aside, exposing herself fully to Russia. “There’s so much more of me for you to tour.”

“Da.” And, smirking, Russia leaned down to do just that.


End file.
